


chili, quiche, casserole

by friendly_ficus



Category: The Adventure Zone (Podcast)
Genre: Gen, Grief/Mourning, Kepler is a place where people live, Small Towns, the intersection of food and grief, this is the aftermath of Amnesty 28
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-08
Updated: 2019-08-08
Packaged: 2020-08-11 22:01:29
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,026
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20160778
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/friendly_ficus/pseuds/friendly_ficus
Summary: Everybody knows Leo’ll look after Ranger Duck, nobody knows Aubrey Little much at all, and somebody’s gotta check in on Kirby—he’s probably having a rough time.(Or: Sympathy meals should be easy to eat, reheat, and freeze.)





	chili, quiche, casserole

The bell above the door jangles briefly as Kirby steps back into the Cryptonomica. He’s sweaty in the formal suit and his feet ache—these shoes are too small, and the walk to the site was longer than he though it’d be. He digs some quarters out of the pile of crap on his desk and walks to the soda machine, retrieving a can of almost-cool RC Cola. He remembers that nobody’s gonna be by to restock the machine if he doesn’t bug Ned to place the order before next—

It was a nice service, as these things go. Duck Newton had said some nice things and everyone had looked appropriately solemn. Aubrey had picked a spot at the back of the gathered people, clearly not in the mood for conversation. That was fine. Kirby wasn’t in the mood to talk much either. Couldn’t even finish writing a eulogy in time. Nothing he’d typed had been right, because what were you supposed to say? _ ‘I know most of you didn’t consider yourselves Ned’s friends, but that didn’t actually bother him too much.’ _That was nothing. It wasn’t the kind of thing you said at a memorial. So Kirby had stayed in the crowd and stayed silent.

It’s Saturday, and the sun sets as he stares at the draft of next week’s Lamplighter. The soda on his desk goes lukewarm, then flat, then forgotten. At one point he stands to do... well, he stands up to do _ something, _ but he can’t remember what it is. 

He turns to call to the back of the place, “Hey Ned! What did I say I was about to...” 

He breathes. In, out. In, out. In, out.

_ Right. _

Kirby sits back down at his desk and stares blankly at his laptop until the sun starts to rise.

\---

Days pass. Billy comes down from his room with an extra pizza slice and pats Kirby’s shoulder, tugs him up to the upper floor so he can catch some sleep on the beanbag with the PlayStation droning in the background. Several times, Kirby starts walking toward Ned’s back room to get the man’s opinion on something and has to stop and breathe. Sometimes the landline for the Cryptonomica rings. Nobody ever picks it up and the canned sound of Ned’s voice on the answering machine echoes through the exhibits. The curtains stay drawn across the windows.

The Lamplighter goes without update and the unfinished eulogy sits three windows deep, untouched. 

On the third day, the glass of the front door rattles as someone persistently knocks. 

“We’re closed,” Kirby tries, before getting up and walking to the entrance. The knocking continues.

When he unlocks the door, blinking against the sunlight, he’s greeted with May Park. 

May’s a waitress down at the diner, an aspiring poet, and one of the few people still in Kepler who went to school with him. They were in Mr.Clarke’s writing club together. One of her poems won second place in a state poetry contest. She’d contributed to his first zine, back when they were using the copy machine in the school library. 

“Hey Kirb,” she says, “haven’t seen you at work in a few days.”

“Been busy. You know how it is, haven’t had time to come by for coffee. I’ve had a lot of errands to run.” He doesn’t meet her eyes, keeping his focus in the space above her right shoulder. He can see the spots where the white paint on her car is peeling. In the back of his mind, the eulogy loops: _ ‘ _ _ I know most of you didn’t consider yourselves Ned’s friends, but that didn’t actually bother—’ _

“I talked to some of the other regulars,” May says carefully, “and they haven’t seen you either. So I’m here to check on you. Everyone’s real sorry about... Well, everyone’s keeping you in mind.”

A little frustrated, Kirby says, “I appreciate it. Did you need something, May?” _ ‘I know most of you didn’t consider yourselves—’ _

Abruptly, she asks, “Have you been home since the memorial?”

He blinks. Shakes his head.

“Well that’s just not healthy, Kirb. You still in the building off Laurel Street?”

“Uh, yeah? Why?”

“Let me help you lock up here, and in return you do the dishes while I make some chili. Leo was having a sale on beans for some reason, and I bought way too much of everything, and I still haven’t had someone come by my place to fix the stove. I can’t stand another night eating at the diner. I know I work there and it’s a good deal, but a lady can only have so many patty melts.”

A little overwhelmed, he steps back and May steps in. While he gathers his laptop and goes upstairs to let Billy know he’s going, she picks up RC Cola cans and sweeps around the main room. 

The drive back to his apartment building is quiet aside from a mix CD that seems to be spa music interspersed with slow ABBA covers. May’s always been on the cutting edge of music, so this must be what’s in right now. Seems a little strange, but he’s heard stranger. 

Kirby unlocks his apartment and May walks right past him, heading for the kitchen and suggesting that he maybe take a shower before coming to help. It’s a good idea.

By the time he comes to the kitchen the large pot of chili is bubbling on the stove and May is scrubbing a cutting board in the sink. They each eat a bowl, still quiet. It’s unusual for May to be so quiet; she’s a talker, she’s brilliant, and normally she has plenty to say about the latest developments around town and the latest scientific news from the telescope. But he’s grateful for her silence, it means he doesn’t have to come up with anything to say. 

She scoops the rest of the chili into some tupperwares—empty butter and sour cream tubs, a couple of lunch meat containers, the kind that come with lids—and puts a couple in his fridge and the rest in his freezer, with a post-it on them to say when the chili was made. Then she scrubs out his pot, thanks him for the use of his kitchen, and advises him to go to bed before he falls asleep at his table.

He sleeps for ten hours straight. He doesn’t remember his dreams, beyond the impression of something mundane. Maybe he was eating at the diner, with his old high school group? There was something about curly fries in there.

When he arrives at the Cryptonomica, Kirby realizes he’s forgotten his laptop at home. He starts bringing order to his desk, throwing away scraps of paper and a couple unsalvageable coffee mugs left behind by Ned or Aubrey. Seriously, stuff was growing in those things.

\---

Two days after that, while he stretches and contemplates what kind of pizza to order for his and Billy’s lunch, there’s another rapping at the Cryptonomica’s door. There’s a very brief moment of panic, when he recalls the growing FBI presence in the town and the back room with undoubtedly dubious goods that he has yet to go through. _ That’s crazy, _ he reminds himself as he goes to open the door, _ Ned’s shady but he doesn’t bring trouble back here. _ Didn’t _ bring trouble back here. _

Against what could be his better judgement, Kirby opens the door.

He’s met by Mister Samuel “Call-Me-Sam” Grady, who at sixty-seven years old is currently the oldest champion of the Kepler Regional Bowling League. Mister Grady gives him a cheery smile and says, “Hello there, Kirby! How’ve you been, champ? You missed bowling night, you know, and the Death Worms were hardly competition without you there!”

The thing about Mister Grady, beyond his bowling prowess that consistently put the Monongahela Beavers in at _ least _ the quarterfinals, was that he had an air of authority around him that one could only develop by being born with a supreme self-confidence. Mister Grady did not walk, he _ strolled. _ If he were feeling particularly relaxed, he _ ambled. _ For someone who wore comfortable sweaters and khakis everywhere that wasn’t the bowling alley, he still seemed like he could belong on a movie set or in a boardroom—and if he stopped by your table to say hello to your mother or aunt or cousin and happened to give you a piece of advice for your newsletter, you _ listened _. To be the center of his attention made a person feel like they simultaneously had limitless potential and were never going to reach his level of understanding. Such was the effect of being in his presence.

So Kirby, who had spent the morning going through the papers on top of Ned’s desk and carefully filing them away, who had been ready to politely but firmly inform whoever it was at the door that he appreciated their time but _ did not need help, thank you _, blinks and does not immediately respond.

Mister Grady’s smile doesn’t falter. “Well now, Julian’s on a cooking kick again and it’s quiches, Kirby, it’s quiches filling up our kitchen. That man...” he trails off fondly, “I love him, champ, but I can only eat so many egg pies.”

“...egg pies. Right,” Kirby says, when it becomes clear that Mister Grady is waiting for a response.

_ “So,” _the older man continues, lifting an insulated grocery bag (because Mister Grady makes it a point to be on the cutting edge of grocery bagging and preservation technology), “I thought you could use a few of them.” He passes the bag to Kirby who valiantly doesn’t react to the abrupt, dense weight of quiche now held in his arms. 

“I don’t... Mister Grady, I appreciate it and I’m sure it’s great but I don’t understand why you’re giving these to me.” _ ‘ _ _ I know most of you didn’t consider—’ _ Kirby pushes the eulogy to the back of his mind and swallows. 

Something softens in Mister Grady’s expression, and he reaches out to pat Kirby’s shoulder. “Can I come in, champ?” he asks in a more gentle voice. 

Kirby steps back. Samuel Grady steps in.

Kirby worries that he’ll mention something about the exhibits being outlandish, or the dust that Kirby can’t seem to keep up with floating in the air, but Mister Grady just turns slowly in a circle on the Cryptonomica floor. He’s quiet while Kirby heads back to the office to set the grocery bag on his desk. 

“I knew Victoria, you know,” he says. “I remember when Ned Chicane first came to town. I told her he was bad news.”

Kirby clenches his teeth and looks away, fighting the urge to yell at Mister Grady, at everyone who looks at him with sympathy now when they never liked Ned in the first place.

“I look at what he did with this place, champ...” Mister Grady pauses, looking at the display of Lamplighter issues and other pamphlets advertising and informing about the cryptids of Kepler and the larger West Virginia area. He sighs. “I was wrong, Kirby. And I’m sorry for it.”

“Thanks for the quiche,” he says, because what are you supposed to say to that?

“She would’ve been happy with the Cryptonomica, you know. I’m sure she’s proud of what Ned did here.” Mister Grady turns his gaze back to Kirby, who meets his eyes. “Do right by this place, champ, and I’m sure they’ll both be proud of you.”

Watching Mister Grady drive away, Kirby blinks to clear his eyes. Yeah. _ Yeah. _

Behind him, Billy shuffles into the room. 

“Pizza?” he says hopefully, nudging the large bag.

Kirby turns to face him, feeling a little bit of a smile across his face. “Well, I guess quiche is _ kind of _pizza. It’s got crust, and it’s got... vegetables and stuff. See, it’s mostly eggs...”

And as he explains and cuts them each a slice of one of the egg pies, the weight of Ned’s absence is a little bit more bearable, at least for a moment.

\---

It’s a bad day, that brings Kirby down one of the residential-ish streets of Kepler. Houses here are far enough apart that you can get a couple minutes of near-perfect solitude between them, without the risk of bears and Bigfoot that comes with the forest. Kirby does not actually want to hike, so he heads out here to clear his head. And, sometimes, to put his head in his hands and let himself shake apart.

It’s not that he means to be a mess it’s just that Ned’s two weeks in the ground today and last night he dreamed of setting up for Saturday Night Dead, the first time, so when he woke up he stuck a tape of the show into the DVD/VCR and watched Ned talk horror for twenty minutes, and he’d been absently making notes on what to improve for the next show when it came crashing back down that there wouldn’t_ be _a next show. That they _wouldn’t _finish the argument over how many candelabra were the ideal number, no matter how bad he wanted to.

It’s just _ hard, _ okay? It’s hard when your boss/coworker/friend is there one day and is just... gone, after. It’s hard and Kirby’s earned this, at least, earned a moment of doubt, earned the right to at least entertain the _ notion _ of leaving Kepler. Earned the right to say _ fuck _ Ned’s legacy, fuck the Cryptonomica and the Lamplighter and that _ goddamn eulogy _ that’s still stuck at one sentence. 

He knows he won’t do it. He knows that even if he could get past the feds at the edge of town, he doesn’t really want to go. But it’s hard. It hurts, chipping away at a new draft for the Lamplighter without Ned there to laugh at him, to suggest a clever turn of phrase. 

Kirby walks for a long time, until the sky starts to go soft with the onset of the evening. He’s heading back towards town when he passes a house with a covered porch. The screen door swings open and Ms.Celia Holiday pokes her head out.

“That you out there, Kirby?” she calls.

“Yes Ms.Celia,” he calls back. “Just heading home now.”

“Well, aren’t you gonna stop and say hello, kid? I’ve got lemonade and things, and Gabe’s just putting dinner in the oven.”

“Aw, you know I would Ms.Celia but it’s getting dark and I’d better get moving if I want to be able to find my way home.” It’s a little more _ aw, shucks _than he normally talks these days, but there’s something about your first-grade teacher that brings you back to your younger self.

“You sure, Kirby? Gabe can take you home in the car, after we eat. Come up here for some lemonade, at least.”

And Kirby, when invited by the woman who could’ve won West Virginia Teacher Of The Year every year if that sort of thing were allowed, heads on in.

Ms.Celia makes a concerned sound when he steps into the light, and ushers him to the guest bathroom where he can splash some water on his face. Once he closes the door the strangeness of the situation hits him; he’s in his teacher’s house. While she was teaching him, he thought she lived at the school. He thought she slept upside down in the gym rafters, like a bat. Not because she was a bad person, but because she was a teacher and that was how teachers slept.

He feels a little bad putting the older couple on the spot like this, but he knows that Ms.Celia’s always inviting her old students to stop by. Whoever comes back to town for class reunions also tends to make a stop here, too. Some kind of pilgrimage for Kepler students that Made It. Kirby’s never come by for a meal, but he takes his walks out here and he’s been known to stop on the porch and chat.

It’s a perfectly nice dinner, some kind of potato-chicken casserole that he makes sure to compliment. Gabe puffs up real proud and promises to copy down the recipe for him. Ms.Celia asks about what she calls “local folklore”—what she actually wants to hear about are Loch Ness Monster sightings, and Kirby feels happy to oblige. Kirby feels, at this table with chicken casserole and fruit salad and lemonade, happy.

He really tries to keep it together, but when Gabe boxes up the leftovers for him it’s really too much and he finds he has to sit down on their squashy couch. He feels happy and terrible and before he knows it Gabe’s handing him tissues while Ms.Celia goes to fetch a wet washcloth for his tears. It’ll help him cool down, she says. It’s... it’s _ embarrassing, _is what this is, but when Kirby stutters out an apology Ms.Celia’s husband shakes his head.

“You’re not the first of Celia’s kids to cry on this couch,” he says calmly, “and you won’t be the last. Just let it out, son.”

He sleeps on their couch that night, away from his house where the Saturday Night Dead tapes are, away from the Cryptonomica where Ned is everywhere. In the morning, Gabe makes berry pancakes for the three of them and Ms.Celia confides that they eat like this whenever they want, just because they can. Any morning can be a special one when you’ve got a two-gallon bag of blackberries in the freezer.

Gabe informs him that Ms.Celia, actually, is fond of suggesting fancy breakfasts as long as she’s not in charge of cooking. 

It’s a good morning. They see him back to his apartment with the remains of the casserole and he puts it in the fridge, and he heads out to face the day. And the next one. And the next one, and the next one, until—

\---

The bell above the door jangles as Aubrey Little walks in, Duck Newton and Arlo Thacker behind her.

“Hey Kirby,” she says, “We think it’s time to get you caught up on everything.”

**Author's Note:**

> Kirby’s in his late 20s and according to what we know he’s from Kepler - he would know people and they would know him. Also I really like making OCs. Kepler is full of them who’s gonna stop me, huh? Griffin?  
This fic was actually very personal; in my life, times that are really hard often go hand in hand with bringing meals or receiving them. I didn’t know that there was a name for those meals before looking up things for this fic, I just knew that that’s What You Do when someone needs a little extra help. Not like this exactly, but this is a story. I had a whole text chain written of Concerned Kepler Community Members (aka the Kirby fan club) before I remembered that there’s no cell phones, whoops. Also, Kirby absolutely tried to make ‘Kirb’ happen in high school and none of his friends from back then will ever let him forget it.  
It’s my first time writing for taz and I’m pretty happy with how it turned out - let me know what you think!


End file.
